


Seventy-Five Thousand Dollars

by Ramona3x3



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, F/M, Kidnapping, Lolicon, M/M, Piss, Sex Trafficking, Sexual Abuse, Slavery, psychological abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2018-09-22 03:09:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9579776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ramona3x3/pseuds/Ramona3x3
Summary: Ivan Braginsky doesn't exist. A spinoff "continuation" of a work by Merry Goat, in which Ivan becomes a captor after he, himself is kept by Alfred and Matthew, with all events preceding his "freedom".





	1. Absentia

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [His Little Angel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3814585) by [MerryGoat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MerryGoat/pseuds/MerryGoat). 



"In most common law jurisdictions a missing person can be declared dead in absentia after seven years," wikipedia, the gospel, declares.

It had been twelve years.

He used to think missing persons weren't forgotten.

That they were remembered, looked for, their face immortalized and thought of.

After that, there was a period of time where he thought they all died shortly after capture, their lives delicate and eager to end to make someone else happy, to free up the executioner for the next job; he thought that he wouldn't be long for the world before it all stopped in pitch-black purgatory.  
Then, he caught eyes with a police officer at a gas station. Shortly.

Ivan Braginsky ceased to exist, an unrecognizable face. A fairy tale.

His name was Victor Arlovski. His hair was dyed brown about a year ago. The still-dark strands hung limply in his face, his soft blondeness at the roots hidden behind a black knit hat that also served to shield his ears from the whipping air rushing in through the open window. The sound of cars outside along the highway beat by like beautiful boats against the waves. A coastal breeze gave arms around the shoulders, coming out of the driver's seat to cradle and to rock, sitting on a Florida beach in the morning rather than plowing through wintry night air on the highway. For no good reason.

It would be time to drive back soon, the girls would be awake. How easy would it be to conduct the risky maneuver of a U-Turn on that ragged, rusting motorcycle? Easier than in a van that still stank of must, rather than cologne and plastic that one part of this ordeal to smell like. It would be so lovely to be reminded...

He turned the car using the shoulder of the highway, illegally, but there was hardly another car now to see it, and he was driving the other way in no time. The radio began to fuzz back to life, singing mutedly, the stereo in the van blown out before it had even been traded for the final time. Out of nowhere, he felt his eyes grow itchy, his face warm, taking a few trained breaths to bury it all, a talent of his. There wasn't time for tears. One of the girls would be picked up today. As he did them all the favor of granting them new names, this one was lovingly named "Daisy", for her round eyes and beautifully thick eyelashes. Her soft thighs, her short legs, her long torso... she wouldn't age well, as kids never did.  
Just fucking kids. Surely, he wouldn't miss the lack of shame she had on shitting wherever she may be, as everyone preferred a child who was more chaste in dumping their wastes... It still wasn't easy to hose out a basement, when the scene was truly blood stained. In the same breath, it wasn't easy to slip in virgin blood every time you wanted to tend to the ones who were still living.

Dawn hadn't intruded by the time he came back to the little single story house, the little place he finally had to his own. Light wasn't a part of the equation yet, as he unlocked the door, the house still quiet. Another lock sat on the stairs, and he unlocked the combination, slipping downward with light feet, hearing only one murmur. She called "Maria, Maria... he's coming." He knew who it was, the little chatterbox. Penny.

"Penny, shut your fucking mouth." He whispered equally as sweetly, coming up to the separate little cage he made for each of them, out of chain-link dog lots weighted by concrete poured into hollowed tires, on top of plastic tarps to keep the poured concrete from damaging the polished concrete floor. He squatted, throwing his hat off towards the stairs, smiling to her. Penny wouldn't bear a lot of money. Her face was splotched in the kind of discolored orange freckles from sun damage, her piss-blonde hair thin and stringy without a wash. Her face itself was ugly, her nose long and knobby. At least his had a point, a purpose, something to break. It was cute for a boy to be a ruffian. Not a girl with a long face, a shrill cry, and a low sob. Not her.

She could be used for something else. She looked back at him with fear in her eyes, shocked and stunned. She thought they were friends, with the way he spoke to her after school, and gave her little gifts when they met in the park. She thought they were friends, especially when he took her to Walmart to buy her mom a birthday present. She loved it. Tommy took her out again, even after meeting her mother, to go get a toy... and she didn't know where she was anymore. It felt like so much longer... so much longer... and she wanted to know where her mommy was. And Tommy wouldn't ever tell her. He just looked back at her, his teeth nubby, just like her baby teeth... he felt like her, but a grown-up... 

He opened the cage and picked her up by the armpits. The small girl hanging limply in time for him to shove her over her shoulder. She knew that trying to escape was fruitless, being dropped on her head, thrown onto furniture, having her head beat against the floor again, and again, and again, until she lost consciousness...  
Her name wasn't even Penny. She knew that, still.

He turned on the camera resting there in the open after turning on a desk lamp pointing towards the floor, dropping her in the limelight. His mask came on, the black ski mask with the mouth cut off, more like a hat with eye holes. He sat behind her, pulling her into his lap, pulling that pretty pink sundress with the hibiscus flowers up to show off her soft, bald pussy.

Tapping her leg to make sure she held them open, he started to kiss the side of her face, even though she started to cry. He rubbed her stomach, without touching her tiny clit yet, using his broad hand to run over her skin and rub those animalistically warm feelings into her skin. It was here that he was most comfortable with himself, even if he could never be able to stand seeing his own face on film. Even if, he unzipped his own pants, rubbing himself to erection while her tiny blue eyes watched.

Penny watched it rise like a serpent ready to strike, sinking farther behind her own eyes the heavier his hand came down on his penis, those ashen blonde hairs at the base straight and coarse. Watching the head grow glossy as precum spread across, touching himself with minimal lubrication at all, his left hand still holding onto her stomach. The effect he looked for was having her tiny, precious fold visible to the side of the pulsing cock, artfully contrasting. He kept her to the side just to be sure it would be visible- what's child pornography without the child? Just his old stuff... ten years too late to be profitable.

He spoke close to her ear, training his voice to sound higher, just like their happy talks in the park. 

"You're such a good girl."

You're such a good boy.

"You're so pretty, Penny."

You're so hot, Ivan.

And, he finished on her stomach, seething... and she started to whimper again. He turned the camera off before using the bottom of his shirt to wipe it away, cradling her. His grip constricted as her tiny hands pushed the other way, and then crawled up to her neck. Wordless.

"Be grateful. I was going to give you a candy." 

By the neck, he lifted her up, tossing her back into the cage and locking her back up, while she crawled around the floor to find the corner with the doggy bed in it. By then, the other two girls were awake, cowering, sharing a cage together. Confident in having enough time, he let them cower, disappearing back up the stairs, turning on a few overhead construction floodlights... just enough to illuminate the cages, but not the walls, or the stairs.

The door closed on them. He moved to the kitchen, where he kept close to nothing other than pasta, cereal, and soup, even if he had learned how to cook properly. The cabinets held Papov in plastic jugs, the drink of choice around the clock. It was breakfast, poured into a coffee mug stolen from an iHOP and sold at a secondhand store. He drank it alone at the table, pulling out his phone and waiting for nine to come. It was seven.

Daisy had an outfit to leave in, surely. White tights, white shoes, a white dress, frilly panties. White ribbons for her hair. He would brush it, with a tiny baby brush, taking care of her rich chocolate hair with just a gentle wave. He did it like a farmer would wash their produce, or a florist would trim the stems of their roses. Like normal. It seemed so casual to sell a person.


	2. Rent-to-Own

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reason behind Ivan's final years with his fathers, and the birth of Maxim.

The first change was his balls. They were definitely bigger, and the mockery around them circled into a fixation. When he was spanked, his less-tiny scrotum was targeted, hit with the folded belt or the crop or the small paddle. They were cupped in Alfred's hands, squeezed, pulled, pinched apart... Every touch seemed to make them more sensitive. They held differently in little bitch panties, falling out of the sides. Matthew didn't comment on them, which might not have been unusual, but it carried an ominous air. And then, there was the hair. Ashen, blonde, straight, and alien. On a whim, Ivan plucked the first few out, finding them under the overhead light of the basement, ripping them out quickly and putting them to the floor. And they grew back. So, he plucked them again. And as they moved, so did he, marking his white skin in little red flakes, irritating and growing ingrown hairs, plucking them out around his taint, his ass, his balls, and his stomach. He tore hair out of his face, from around his ears. Eventually, Matthew suggested mittens, just like a baby who scratches its own face in marks. It only made Ivan's attempts more frantic. Every hair risked his life, keeping him from being cute. Cute was alive, precious meant that the next day was at least a reasonable expectation. Nothing was promised, but as long as he was cute and young, he could have another chance to please Alfred and Mattie. He could stay with the family he'd been placed in, and keep what comfort he'd trained himself to find.

They were his family, now. They were what made the house he wanted to be a part of. All the cuddles, the praises, the loving touches were his and the dogs'. He thought this was his life now. Ivan was a pet to have sex with, and a companion. Every stroke of his hair was a stroke of color, a blob of paint to give him new life after being erased. Everything Alfred and Matthew did re-created who Ivan was, and his paint was never dry. A dick in his ass was the wire in the clay to hold him upright.

Ivan did fantasize about growing up. He thought to himself about getting bigger, being a man and remaining who he was... big, quiet, and different, but all too much the same. He would dream about it, about being big and on his knees, like some of the adult pornography he had been exposed to. Like being himself, on his hands and knees, big enough to run away... but he would never dream of the outside. He'd wake up and wipe the red-hot itch dribbling down his cheeks, only understanding that his goal was impossible. It wasn't possible. In that day, he'd wake, service, eat, and sleep, only to think the same thoughts, dreaming the same dreams, holding his growing genitals in his hand as he laid curled, to give the comfort of protecting them.

He was speaking to himself the first time his voice cracked, and then he started speaking higher, quieter, less, to keep it from happening again. Whatever changes were trying to age him, it was his job to hold it inside. Alfred continued plummeting into his ass, and Ivan was yet a protege in sucking dick.

"Come on, baby. Why won't you tell me what you want?" A playboy bunny costume or a girl scout uniform was what Alfred held to his face, each outfit needing a shoot, but one needing to go first. Ivan sat naked on the floor, his lips pursed, his blonde hair swinging out like a carnival swinger when he shook his head.

"You don't get a fucking choice whether or not to answer. Speak up, Louise." It was the movement of his new Adam's apple when he swallowed that gave Matthew the hunch.

His height brought him to Alfred's armpits, chronic underfeeding stunting him there. His feet grew, and little girl's shoes no longer fit him, even at the largest sizes they could come in. His face grew in of itself, his eyes comparably smaller, but still that rare, beautiful shade. Ivan's hair grew, cut a few times with a pair of kitchen scissors, remaining that beautiful tow shade of his boyhood. A little fringe across his forehead remained.

He was growing from a big shota to a lovely blonde twink.

"Ivan, I want to ask you about changes in your body." Matthew was told to talk to him about this, sitting right in front of Ivan.

Sticking to the status quo, and Ivan finally looked up to meet eyes. "I... I'm sorry." That was the first thing he could think to say, using that high, sweet voice that was safe.

"I know you don't talk like that. Even when you were little your voice was deeper. Cut the bullshit. I think you're going through puberty."

"I know."

"That's not good. How long have you known?"

"A long time."

A year, Ivan could try and guess at, full of that beautiful combination of hair-ripping, silence, and plenty of new nervous habits when the sun went down. It wasn't good, Matthew said; Ivan knew he was right. He held back the tears to trade for a crushing pain, reaching from his neck to both shoulders, stretching down his stomach.

"Why did you keep it from us?" Ivan kept his silence, bowing his head. Matthew let him, and Alfred came back with a little bit of dinner that Ivan still wanted none of, always the irregular eater. Back down in the basement that night, Ivan froze in waiting for that door to close on the upper level of the house, for both of his captors to be in their bedroom together.

After that, he started to wring his hands, and form a plan. The next day, he took out his new flaccid cock during lunch, crawling right back up to Alfred with it out. And, when he did his next shoots with even more effort, moved his hips during anal, begged to take both men at once. He gyrated his hips right. He did cute little shy-whore things, like lip biting and always appearing to have a slight pout, as if a cock got ripped from between the soft folds of his lips. He acted like a little whore, looking like it was orgasmic to piss on the lawn. Like every meal aroused him. Like there was nothing more in the world that he wanted than to have both ends filled. It was close enough to the truth. With every plunge, he could be recreated, in red and black and candy-Barbie, slutty Mattel pink.

It was a few weeks of that before he was waiting patiently in the living room, overhearing one of those sitcom adult talks in the kitchen, with the pretty country countertops and the shining Kenmore stand mixer that Matthew got for the previous christmas. In front of that blind God above who never did anything substantial, nothing to stop anything. He was already too late to start, anyway.

"He's getting big."

"He'd be bigger if he ate."

"He's going to get bigger."

"Yeah... what do you think?"

"We gotta get rid of the kid."

Ivan couldn't see faces, nor understand what everything meant precisely, blindly hearing. He felt he knew what he had to know when it had happened, deaf to anything else, a loud cacophony of tuning and beating and blowing in an orchestra filling his ears. Heat swam to his face, and air flew away in a massive flock of unperceivable v-shapes of wind.

Both hands wrapped around his mouth, he swallowed the nerves again, holding his eyes open to stifle any tears, on an issue that wasn't his business at all. He crawled back over to the corner of the living room, where he was supposed to be patiently waiting.

The fall of his knees on the floor came quietly, and he sat on his side, knees together, shoulder leaning on the wall in the absence of a caring hand. The sad, sad melody of Romantic period cherubic hymns, playing while a little bitch suffered her great melancholy in the corner.

Ivan chose this as his moment to have his release, for himself, keeping stoic with his chest crushed by the weight of his own life, keeping clean of the sin of sadness when he heard footsteps behind them.

"There he is! How cute- waiting for me?" That face, that blonde face that smiled at him from behind a camera, the glasses perched on his perfect nose, with those beautiful blue eyes that never ceased to analyze and capture. Every kid had their bias between a mommy and a daddy, and Ivan's was staring right back at him, face enveloped in a grin. That hair that bounced, the face that never seemed to get tired, staring right back with a smile, and Ivan struggled so hard to match it, to even come close and look sweetened. Alfred didn't want a kid. He never wanted a kid. He wanted a fleshy, unintelligent ray of sun, silver glimmers running in the playground after one P.M. Alfred didn't want these bastard tears, these stupid feelings, these insignificant worries. He wanted Ivan's ass. Ivan wanted his ass to feel wanted, too.

It fit in just perfectly, by itself. Now, if only Alfred could still pick Ivan up like this, if he hadn't already grown too heavy.

"How about you sleep in the bed with us tonight. Would you like that?" He'd always like that, his head bobbing, nodding away every last feeling of common sense.

Later, it was dark; he was curled in bed between the couple, facing Alfred, leaning on his shoulder, light eyes pointing faraway, that corner with rising waves of worry swirling over and drowning the heart deeper into the chest cavity. Ivan lifted his head to the level of Alfred's face, sensing that he was half asleep, and Ivan chose a chance.

"Fuck me, daddy. Please, fuck me."

"Ivan?"

"Fuck me. Please."

Ivan wasn't horny at all, whispering so softly to hide the need to otherwise speak falsetto, his head resting calm and his underwear left without a tent. Ivan didn't want sex, but he thought that Alfred's libido might support it, might remember the only thing Ivan was good for, and might feel differently about him come the morning light. Ivan wanted to please, as if acting like a rabbit in heat for the past few weeks since he became hyperaware of his body was doing nothing. Fuck, it wasn't doing anything at all to help. And yet, Ivan had the most nauseating sink in his stomach, the glass elevator in him falling through all of his organs, cracking at his pelvis... the sly thought that Ivan couldn't change a thing.

But Alfred wouldn't say no.

The coagulated blob of undulating bodies, Ivan getting it in the ass that was far less tight than it had been, Matthew growling awake and presenting his cock. Ivan was mechanical in giving the handjob, changing his hand position, gently teasing, changing moving upwards with a hint of a twist in his wrist, versus simply going up and down.

Ivan knew how it worked, and that kind of security was so comforting. The pattern of Alfred cumming, Matthew's seme dribbling onto Ivan's hand... baby wipes came out of the nightstand to clean off Ivan's pale skin, dragging across like a satin blade, the flat metal brushing it's chill across the meat of fingers and the roundness of his ass. Ivan sighed slowly, complacent, wiped off well while Matthew grumbled distantly about needing to change the sheets.

Then, Ivan was back where he started, but Alfred held onto him, his warm breath a veil of safety on Ivan. Tomorrow could be guaranteed. Favor had been met. His ass was wanted.

It was an agonizing week later, his elbows being positioned side by side for his arms to be tied, complacent and still, his legs parted and fasted with a few hitches trapping a metal bar in the bends on his knees. Ivan could only kneel, on the basement floor, the rope on his hands having snuck upward to his first knuckle, restraining his hands to two fists pressed together in a heart shape. On request, his lips fell open, a fistful of pantyhose shoved into Ivan's mouth. Then, a tight black silk scarf to hold it in was fastened over Ivan's mouth. The drooling was reflexive, making the tights turn tacky to the tongue. With a blindfold, the BDSM set was complete. Before, he saw the camera on a tripod a short distance from him, but a pool of dread began to fester as he was turned, presumably against the wall.

In Alfred's hand rested a leather crop. The camera light turned red, rolling, taking in sound through a microphone resting on the floor to take in the echo of the noisy, but gently strike of the crop on Ivan's skin. Ivan did what every sub is supposed to do, emitting a keening sound, a whine to warm up. Speaking of warming, Ivan was coming to realize that these little hits might be teasing at a greater summit- he knew that Alfred and Matthew were speaking of getting rid of him, and now it seemed that Ivan knew what they were talking about.

Being let go was out of the question, and Ivan would be disposed of. Finally, killed, buried in the yard, his rancid body fed on by the gigantic dogs, their fur dripping with darkened blood-

By the second strike, Ivan had begun to sob. Normal, but not when a muffled scream came through the gag. Alfred kept going anyway, as Ivan's small body erupted in heaving cries, his voice twisted lower than usual, his sobs guttural and his screeching nonstop and desperate. The strike of a leather cat (switched as Alfred thought the crop might have been too painful, the skin not yet warmed up), came down softly, as Ivan was inconsolable, the sound of heaving inward breaths filling the room, faster and faster.

The red light on the camera flicked off, the scarf fallen to the floor as well as the bundle of wet hosiery. Alfred snatched up the fifteen year old disaster, still braying like a donkey in ugly, tearing, ripping sobs, turning him to face the room, the blindfold clumsily flipped off of his head. Matthew stared at Alfred, who stared at Ivan, who cried to the floor, his hands raised as if begging. His throat closed spasmodically, unable to utter a word, crying in phrases of vowels like a baby. Fat tears flew down his face, eyes and face erupting in swollen heat. Matthew was the one to distract from that mesmerizing state, hearing Ivan's second vagitus rebound off the concrete walls.

He gestured to the stairs.

Alfred nodded, looking at Ivan but unsure what to do with him, leaving him tied up. Matthew picked up the tripod, and Ivan looked up to see them leave, unsure whether or not to be relieved or even more afraid. Are they going to get the gun? Are they going to leave him to rot alone, unable to close his legs, hardly able to feel comfortable? Yes! Yes! They were going to leave him to die alone. The door to the upstairs slammed closed. Ivan thought he heard it lock.

His chest quivered from the inside out, extreme in his stressed shoulders that shook like a rickety house in a hurricane. The bound weight of his hands pressed against his face, stomach burning from the power of his diaphragm exploding upwards. To lower them would rip him in half, his body reeling in as it felt it's own cries. Ivan turned himself over, landing sharply with his head hitting the floor with a crack, unable to use his hands to support himself, or his legs to lower him gently. The shrill tinnitus made his noise mute, his mouth open, dripping onto the hard floor.

There was nowhere to move, no way to get to the dog bed for shallow comforts. His skin grew cold frighteningly quickly on the floor. His vision swam with specs of light that faded to black so quickly, the bottom of his vision greying, then creeping up into sleep.

He woke up in the pitch blackness, in a puddle of piss.

-

It was two days before anyone came back down into the basement. The light from the stairs shone first, Ivan's eyes burning with the sudden re-introduction of light. The past two days were spent in silent agony, longing, turning inside out with ache, his face burning, his legs burning in the puddle of urine. His legs stuck to the floor once it dried, difficult to remove. Without water, Ivan had weakened, without his fathers, Ivan didn't have a reason not to feel weak and alone, wishing for them to come back and shove something too big into his ass, so he could tear, just to be touched by someone.

Alfred came down the stairs with a bucket of water, a pocket knife, and a small bottle of dish soap in his pocket. He turned the overhead light on as he approached, moving Ivan's head and torso into his lap, offering comforts of touches that Ivan turned his head towards, whimpered for, whining to have...

Wordlessly, Alfred used the rag to deliver clean water into Ivan's mouth, letting him suck it off of the rag. Once Ivan had some, Alfred moved Ivan towards the convenient drain in the floor before sloshing some water onto his legs, putting some soap on the rag and gently wiping away the rashy peel of the skin, gently washing away the stink of old ammonia and urea.

"Did you miss me?"

"I love you, please... please... I love you..." Ivan croaked out, desperate to be held and touched. An ungranted wish, he felt, meaningless, another whisper, coo, cry into the darkness.

Alfred brought out his knife, cutting the ropes now that Ivan was mostly clean, spreading his legs to pull naked, still unfresh, Ivan fully into his lap, cradling their overgrown cummy boy.

After a few gentle kisses, soft rubs, and cooing, Ivan felt better, his interpubescent genitals out for display, soft and laying in position. Alfred glanced to them; they certainly weren't terrible, especially when he would still be growing. The start of ashy pubes, the light heft of two relatively symmetrical balls, and a good cock without too much of a curve or a curl upwards.

"Would you like to come upstairs for a real bath, and dinner?"

It was the finest evening Ivan had ever experienced.

-

A few more days had passed, and the wound couldn't rest closed. Ivan was called into the living room, only to be held and fed a glass of milk steadily, like once when he was small. More neutrality was taken for his treatment, letting IvAan recover, bouncing back to becoming placid and calm again. He needed to be nursed back to trust, weaned onto it. Steadily, through holds and soft touches, shoulder pats and brief hugs, Ivan felt secure enough to act normally. Just more trust, more illusioned safety, more days promised to him until the idea of sudden death had all but left him.

One morning, he was being bathed. Alfred's fingers scraped through his scalp, a wide toothed comb brushing through the suds in his hair, thickening only to drip down his shoulders in white, soapy sludge. Alfred lathered up Ivan's face and scraped at the first buds of facial hair that had grown while Ivan had stopped picking them away. Matthew took a rag to Ivan's back and his arms, scrubbing them clean, to polish the exfoliate and clean the oil away. Finally, Ivan was clean smelling and pink, Alfred stretching forward to give a cheek kiss.

"I am so proud of you, my sweet, sweet angel." The first time Ivan would ever get that nickname, and he melted into a smile.

  
A blink later, and he's sitting on the floor wearing a clean polo shirt tucked into short khaki shorts, a cheap brown belt, soft gray socks and brown loafers, like he had an overprotective mother in that house (he did, and his name was Alfred). He was sitting there with a dark haired man, nose packed as if it had been broken with gauze taped to the bottom of his nose. He looked over Ivan with interest, even more once Ivan was told to peel his shorts and underwear down.

  
"Show your pretty little dick to Mr. Jett, Ivan." And it hung there, still growing, not yet full like a man's, but the ashen blonde hairs certainly appeared to please the man in front of him. Ivan looked back to Matthew, who was stony and silent. Alfred looked excited, not even looking at Ivan's face, which was anything but reassured by what he was looking at.

"Be a good boy and suck on his dick just like Daddy's. We promised him you were the best."

  
It was a sample that tasted rather than tasting the sample, in the middle of the living room, taking in the alien curl of this man's pubic hair, the uncircumcised girth of his penis. No teeth, the alien position of a hand holding his head differently, the heel of the hand secure on Ivan's blonde hair. And, the man was pleased.

  
"Ivan, swallow it." Matthew was quick to command, watching as Ivan swallowed it with the cock still in his mouth, before the man himself had a command. "Lick it clean, will ya?" He had an accent.

He pulled his own spit-covered penis back into his pants, looking at Alfred and Matthew. "I'll give you sixty five."

  
"Ninety, motherfucker." Alfred chuckled, taking a sip of the coke can on the table.

  
"He's not as young as you said."

  
"I told you that two years ago. He's fifteen."

  
"Mm... he'll get big."

  
"He's well trained. We want ninety."

  
"Seventy."

  
"Eighty."

  
"Seventy-five?"

  
Matthew and Alfred looked at each other. Matthew was mouthing something, his eyes solid, shaking his head slowly. Alfred appeared to interrupt. "Sounds fucking great, Jett."

  
Ivan was silent, kneeling on the floor with the taste of this stranger in his mouth, feeling a great wave of nerve rise up on him, but he was still unable to question. Dogs don't speak, the only ones that barked were outside. After the first few nights sleeping outside, he'd failed to make a noise. But, the walls had already begun to move in, as the men broke up. The dark haired man, Jett, went out to his car, bringing back a backpack. Alfred went into the kitchen for a soda, Matthew followed. Ivan couldn't figure out what they were selling.

  
-

  
The ride in Jett's car was numb, Ivan leaning against the door, blinking slowly in the backseat in hopes of his eyes re-absorbing what was trying to come out of him. Still dressed like a white kid in the suburbs, he was buckled in and quiet, Jett smirking in the front seat.

  
"Look, kid. Your name is Max. Ivan sounds like some kind of a forty year old bloke driving a cab. I'm Master Smith. Not your daddy, not mister. I'm Sir. Do you understand, you spoiled piece of overpriced shit?" Yet, he said it with a smile of satisfaction.

  
"Yes."

  
"Yes, _Sir_."

  
"Yes, sir."

  
"Next time, I'll beat your ass."

  
-

  
"We agreed on eighty thousand."

  
"She's..."

  
"I don't give a fuck, Barry. Give me eighty, right fucking now. She's fucking tight, cute.... She's the best one I got."

  
"Yeah... alright. You drive a hard bargain. You take checks?"

  
"Don't scam me. You have the cash."

  
"I got your money in the back of the car. And whom do I owe the pleasure to?"

  
"Call me Max."

-

"How could you just do that?"

"Do what? You were the one who offered to sell him first, dude, don't even fuck with me. We're getting five hundred 'k' for this, and we need the money from him from some cost. It sounded great when you popped it, Mattie, are you having misgivings?"

"Hey, he was your pet. He just gave better blowjobs than you did."

"Aww, so he _is_ upset!"

"Look-"

"No, no, I know. I'll miss him terribly, but I have a deal with Jett. If he ever decides to get rid of Ivan within three years, he'll call us first and we can buy him back. After three years... he'll be eighteen anyway. But, I doubt he's going to make a lot of money. He didn't age well- his nose can hold two tampons without a bulge. Hell, so can Jett's- it actually is right now!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHOOOO! Finally, a second chapter up! So, any new thoughts?


	3. Skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jett Smith makes a bit of money off of the newly proclaimed Max, but Max isn't Jett's only cash cow.

Daisy looked so sweet in her white dress, the buttons on the back lining up well with her, jiggling gently when she shivered. Ivan held her seated with his legs around her, pressing her down, and his presence was tall enough that he had very few problems surrounding her. She sat still because of fear, and he combed her hair out very gently. Some strawberry Suave detangling spray, cheap vanilla-esque perfume from the bargain shop, and she smelled delightful. Her hair was conditioned freshly, washed, and softened, and Ivan had dried it carefully with the low settings of a hair dryer, careful not to burn her skin. Then, he sectioned it off and began to plait it in a very simple braid, banding it off and tying a ribbon snugly around the bottom. She looked so precious, in her little white shoes and socks, with the ruffle accent on the end. Her face, although thinner than when he first knew her, was still light and soft, her big eyes complimented.

He sighed for a moment, and he was suddenly again aware at the other girls watching him through the chain-link of their cages. They were jealous, he thought to himself. The little fools all wanted to be as pretty as Daisy. Perhaps some filming would be done this afternoon while he had all the hairbows and the dresses laid out.

He looked to make sure all of the cages were locked before plucking up some rope, taking Daisy's arms and tying them to her torso, then tying her feet together more gently. With a blanket also in his arms, he picked her up, turning off the light before going up stairs, then locking the basement door. Daisy went out to the car in a blanket bundle, and he belted her into the car seat with a few literal belts, then buckled her in for safety. It would be a three hour drive to the next state, and he would make the deal at the man's house. What a fucking idiot. Ivan would obscure his license plate once he was there. But, for then, Daisy was loaded up into the car. About an hour down the road, Ivan chose to make a stop for a drive through, pulling the blanket up Daisy's ropes. "If you're quiet, you'll get a happy meal, and I'll help you eat it."

One girl's happy meal and a double quarter pounder meal later, he was going down the road with a chicken nugget in one hand, letting her slowly take them in her mouth. As a last measure, he unwrapped her My Little Pony doll and set it in her blanketed lap for her to look down at. She could have it in the house with her, her new owner permitting. They just kept forward, silently in the van, hearing the wheels turn and the pavement move by.

-

He rode in the car with Jett, and it never seemed to really end. The rest of the boys were all in a brothel of a sort, a crackhouse where someone else was pimping them out and giving Jett "all" the money. The van arrived, and the other boys loaded into it, pulling out a few cheap fleece blankets from under the seats to sleep with. There wasn't any speaking, just folding over, some curling against each other, others shrinking away under their blanket to sleep and avoid any exposure or touch... There were about five other boys that he could see around him. Unwittingly, all of them were travelling across the country, which was the reason for their presence in such a delightful vessel, with seats, a proper floor, and vents that were pushing heat when it got cold at night.

Ivan knew his name still, and sat back in the seat in his preppy clothes, his arms cold against the plastic interior of the van, and he let his head loll against the cold glass that shimmered with city lights, bands of orange halogen light streaking faces as they rode down the road. It wasn't like his basement that became his home, or the bed that he was getting way too big to share with two other men. It wasn't where he thought he could stay, as stupid as that sounded. He wanted to get fucked, and now he had what he wanted... but Ivan still hungered for that particularly fruity smell on their shirts, the blonde hair and blue eyes that looked at him with those eyes full of such miraculous jest to cast him off so easily. He craved that single pancake he got on special occasions, and the milk with a load of semen in it that was still sort-of cold by the time Ivan drank it. The sticky syrup that was warm and pleasant in his mouth, but itchy on his skin. Yet... he wanted that life back, and what contact it gave. But it was over, and he even felt bad that he didn't feel like crying over it. Not now. 

It went on for a few days, silently riding off into the distance with the other boys, and murmurs were heard between them. They whispered in the bathrooms when they were all unloaded at a gas station to pile into the restrooms and have a ten minute frenzy of bodily functions, standing in lines, because order was hard to un-teach in humans. Although the outfits didn't match at all, and they stood like animals against each other, chicken carcasses in a chilled pile, you could see the workings of a society of boys. Those two were friends, that one was a big brother to the other one although they looked nothing alike. Then, there was the smallest one, sitting between Ivan and another boy in the van, who had begun resting his hand on Ivan's arm ever so gently when he would nod off into sleep, a brief sign of acceptance into the dog pack. Altogether, Ivan counted three days before they were shuffled into a different house out in the nitty gritty of the shitty city, somewhere in Buttfuck, California, in the south where the dammed and drained Colorado river made almost everything else around it that had once been green a dry, desertifying prairie.  
  
Ivan was led into a room all his own, the door locked behind him, he thought. He didn't know, but he didn't feel like checking. He was in the middle of smelling himself (showers were not common to come by, it seemed) when a man entered the room, his hot hands and cold sweat too familiar to Ivan, and he did what he did best.

"Your name's Max?"

"Yes, sir."

"Come here... let's take these off." 

Ivan noticed for the first time that he was as tall as this new man, some dude with a mustache, aviator-shaped bifocals, and some coarse Lee denim on, peeling down Ivan's shorts and taking in those ashy pubes, dropping balls, and flaccid cock. He played with them, even giving a few uncomfortable pinches, before Ivan did what he had to do and let his hips bump up another man's. It felt wrong to present his ass to anyone but Alfred or Matthew, and it felt like a sin. It felt like it had before there was "love" in those touches, but like the second and third time. Nothing defeats the first stain on the white satin of his life, and nothing could bring it back afterwards. So, he presented, he ground, he bucked, he moaned, and he made a show of it. If nothing would get better, nothing could stop him from acting this way.

-

It was that night when he managed to sleep, and that same boy who slept against his shoulder sometimes came to share the mattress on the floor that Ivan found to sleep on, by crawling in and wrapping Ivan's arms around his tiny body.

"Did I wake you up?" He offered the question into the dark, hearing Ivan grunt and make noises of general arousal from sleep. 

"Yes-"

"I'm really sorry. This was just the best place to sleep. You're safer than the rest."

And with that unfolded a little talk. Mimi didn't really remember when he was separated from his family, but it had happened, and here he was. This whole process of moving and staying and moving had become nearly normal for him, but it came at the price of an unshakable loneliness... one that Ivan found he felt similar to.

The more he talked, the more he backtracked on himself. Mimi grew up with his mother and three brothers until a custody battle between his parents meant that he would go to join his father, and lived essentially alone until a friend of a friend of his dad noticed him and found interest in molestation that turned into car trips, favors, and the eventual car trip that stopped ending. It stopped making sense after that, the days ran together, and he started staying with other grown men, who turned to more and more and more, until he had all but lost track of the man who had initially separated him from what he used to live in. Now, he was here, being fully shipped around like a crated animal, like everyone else. His body was small, with small shoulders and skinny limbs, without the height Ivan had, with twice the curls on his delicate forehead. He was what Ivan felt he should still be, if he actually wanted a bed instead of cuddling up on a van seat.

For the next few days of travel from California up the coast, stopping, boys being taken from the van and not getting back on before they were rolling again. Five were left by the border at night by what appeared to be the glints of a semi truck in the crescent moonlight. Ivan rode quietly, he and Mimi close, breathing in sync, holding onto each other when no one was seeing. Invisible children with invisible friendship, without even knowing their real names. Mimi wasn't a name for a boy. His name was Raivis, but no one called him that from the start. Mikelis just gave way to Mimi before long... but his name din't really matter to the men he was spending his time with when they weren't being moved.

Ivan was "rocking that ass" off the charts, and was becoming popular among men seeking youthful, whorish types. More of a young man than a boy, but the elder Boy Scout age had an audience, just like little girls, little boys, and every age from unborn to ancient.

It was right, in the meantime, to cuddle with someone else under the cover that they were only sleeping, to crumple in the floorboard when they stopped, to keep them warm and crawl under a towel with. It was acceptable by a thin margin to experience he kind of nervous need that made the tears fall on someone elses' skin without words in fear of being found and labeled and known could, where the presence of the other person made the tears that much more irrational. The comfort of Mimi against Max's skin was superficial, the pain around it was the thing that made the experience seem realistic.

\--

Right where he said he would be, Ivan pulled up to the house missing the front license plate of his vehicle, using a "spare" one he lifted off of a junker car on the back. Daisy was pretty as ever, her tears kept to a period of time while they were on the road, not in front of the buyer, but her face was still pink. Like a little Victorian lady. Ivan pulled around to the back door of the garage, where the entire door was lifted, and his van could park in that garage. It was as the door lifted that Ivan donned another mask claimed from the dumpster, a plastic, white cat mask. 

He got out the car first to receive the box. A microwave box. With a microwave in it. A white one- no, no, that was just the picture outside of it. The real appliance was black, and filled with eighty thousand dollars. It was a good cover, and Ivan's microwave was... not broken. It never worked to begin with, so how could it break? A new microwave was welcome, at the expense of a few hundred dollars. So what if it was only approximately eighty thousand if he had a nice microwave to cook his disgusting food with and further prolong his physical presence with hot pockets and hungry man meals. If he had one wish, it would be never to eat again, to stop taking from other people on that basic way, and stop feeling pain for wanting to diminish slowly what he taxed from the organic world.

Daisy wouldn't look at him, tied up in that man's arms, although all he wanted to see was her eyes. It was her he worried about, like it always was, painful and silent like an elbow in the ribs from a mute. There's a message there, but which one was it? His breath of relief was to see her pony toy in her hand, the little bit of colorful plastic that was a sign of- not his love, he knew better than to claim he would love someone he would treat like that- his wishes for her, like an apology for bringing her into this alternative world of fast physical corruption and fleeting, truncated value. With a curt goodbye, he left that place, only taking the mask off once he knew the garage door had closed and the owner of the house was preoccupied with his new toy. Good luck with the shit-smearing.

The road passed by like a black, sparkling ribbon in the wintry sun.

-

A glittering diamond night rolled by in the hills towards a ranch, a lovely farm devoid of animals, with barbed wire fencing and an old windmill, and all the grass that can be imagined. Of course it happened at night, as everything clandestine does. It was yet another bathroom stop, in a way; the double wide farmhouse was full of kids in one room, and the boys were placed with the younger ones. Mimi had to tell Max later that was what happened. Meanwhile, he was outside. 

In a form of tractor shed, a small building, there was a hose coiled up connected to a spigot, kinked and misting water all over itself. There was that, and a garden spray bottle. Jett asked for him to undress fully under the light of a single, bright flashlight held by one of the men who lived there... 

((A/N: I pressed the wrong button. Please be patient with me while I finish the rest of this thing a bit slowly!))

**Author's Note:**

> A million credits to MerryGoat, the author of the piece that inspired this one, "His Little Angel." Thank you, Goat, for being the reason I go to hell in a handbasket.
> 
> Furthermore, MerryGoat stresses that my fiction IS NOT and WILL NEVER BE the proper ending to their fic. It is NOT in coordination with their intent towards the ending of their fanfiction. IT IS NOT A CONTINUATION IN ANY ASPECT OF THE WORD AS FAR AS THEY ARE CONCERNED. I call it a continuation because I jammed this timeline onto the events that had happened as of Chapter 17 of His Little Angel. IT IS NOT A CONTINUATION, IT IS NOT A SUBSTITUTE, IT IS A SEPARATE ENTITY.
> 
> THIS FANFICTION IS NOT A CONTINUATION OF HIS LITTLE ANGEL BY MERRYGOAT. They have personally requested I deliver that message. If I could delete the word "continuation", I would, but I cannot without anything making much sense on how this work relates to that work. THIS FANFICTION IS NOT IN ACCORDANCE WITH THE PLOT OF HIS LITTLE ANGEL BY MERRYGOAT.
> 
> As always, what did you think of this chapter? What would you like to see? What does this make you think of? Leave a comment, a bookmark, or kudos!


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